


If I'd Wanted a Ghost, I'd Have Gone to See "Phantom"

by Cherepashka



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Fun Home - Freeform, Holtz/Patty, Musicals, Patty/Holtz, silliness, toltzmann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7589017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherepashka/pseuds/Cherepashka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tickets to 'Fun Home'!" says Holtz.</p><p>"A lesbian with a family funeral home." Patty purses her lips and gives Holtz a Look. “Holtzy, why would I pay eighty-seven dollars to sit through a song-and-dance version of last Saturday’s dinner with my folks?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I'd Wanted a Ghost, I'd Have Gone to See "Phantom"

**Author's Note:**

> This contains minor spoilers for "Fun Home". Specifically, "Fun Home" the musical. You should go see it, if you are able to. And read the book, if you haven't already. In the meantime, have some Ghostbusters!

Patty’s catching up on one of her historical architecture blogs when Holtz slouches in and slams two pieces of paper on the worktable. This turns out to be a more dramatic gesture than she probably intended, because there’s a half-completed mess of metal and wire sitting on the table, and the impact of Holtz’s hand makes it bounce, spark, spark again, and collapse in on itself. Patty eyes it with distrust.

It bursts into flame. 

“Aww, Holtz, seriously?” Patty groans, reaching for the fire extinguisher and depressing the pump. Nothing happens. 

“Ohh, I forgot, I _may_ have had to empty that out yesterday,” confesses Holtz, casually rescuing the pieces of paper, as well as a pair of gun-shaped prototypes sitting dangerously close to the flames. She stows the paper and the prototypes in her back pockets and continues, “Because first the ion grenade redesign got too close to the Bunsen burner, and then I realized I could use the potassium bicarbonate in there to stabilize the —”

“Forget about that!” Patty snaps, searching frantically for a blanket or something to smother the rapidly growing fire. She doesn’t see one, though she could swear Erin had passed out under a quilt on the reception area couch last week.

Holtz, meanwhile, disappears under the worktable. A few seconds later, she emerges with a bucket — which Patty recognizes as the one they left on the second floor during the last rainstorm to catch the ceiling drip ($21,000 a month for a leaky ceiling? Only in New York, Patty thinks) — and a sly grin. With a dance-like shimmy, Holtz hoists the bucket to shoulder level and unceremoniously dumps it over the flames. The burning device hisses and sizzles, throwing off a few feeble sparks as if trying to reignite itself. Finally, it subsides. The water Holtz dumped over it turns a noxious brown-green color, and Patty waits to see if it’ll corrode a hole in the floor. But, at least in that respect, it seems to be benign. 

Holtz is looking ruefully at the sad, scorched remains of her device. “I’m going to have to start over on that,” she says. “Proton gun upgrades have the same bug, gotta figure out what to do about the impact-initiated combustion instability…”

Patty takes a second to parse this. “You mean the way it lights on fire if you bump it?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Holtz trails off into whatever whacked-out mental place she goes to to get her inventions, and Patty’s about to leave her to it and get back to her blog, when Holtz suddenly comes back to earth. “Oh, I almost forgot!” 

Patty forces herself not to back away from Holtz’s maniacal grin, hoping that, whatever Holtz has remembered this time, the fires Patty will inevitably have to put out will be metaphorical. 

“I got us these!” Holtz whips one of the gun-prototypes out from her back pocket with a flourish. Patty looks at it, perplexed. Holtz frowns at the device for a second, then shoves it back in her pocket, pulling out the pieces of paper instead. “I mean these!”

“What are those?”

“Tickets to 'Fun Home'!” Holtz says, with the sort of enthusiasm she usually reserves for phrases like “PKE containment capsules!” or “Fission-powered ectoplasm chromatographs!”

Patty stares. “Isn’t that a Broadway show or something?” 

She vaguely remembers ads for it in some of the trains coming through her station. Patty’s never been much of a musical theater person, mostly because her little sister _was_ one, and if Patty never hears someone belting "Les Mis" in the next room again until the day she dies, it will be too soon. 

“It’s not just any Broadway show,” Holtz says, affronted, “it’s based on Alison Bechdel’s classic memoir about growing up lesbian in her family’s funeral home with her abusive dad. _And_ it won the Tony.” She waggles her eyebrows, putting Patty in mind of a pair of caterpillars trying to do the Macarena. Except Holtz’s eyebrows are actually quite nice, if a little over-animated.

She grabs the tickets, feeling her own eyebrows shoot up when she notices the price.

“A lesbian with a family funeral home.” Patty purses her lips and gives Holtz a Look. “Holtzy, why would I pay eighty-seven dollars to sit through a song-and-dance version of last Saturday’s dinner with my folks?”

“Come on, it’ll be great,” Holtz drawls, dragging out the words like a wheedling child. 

“Why don’t you take Abby or Erin?” 

“Abby’s already seen it. Twice,” says Holtz, giving Patty a look of wide-eyed supplication; through her goggles, the effect is alarming. “And Erin probably wouldn’t be interested.”

“ _I’m_ not interested,” Patty points out.

“Eh,” Holtz says evasively, “you’re different!”

Patty pauses. This is, after all, one of the sanest requests Holtz has ever made of her, and she feels like she should encourage what glimmers of sanity she finds. Maybe if she agrees to see the show, Holtz will ask Patty to join her on more theater excursions instead of asking her to “requisition enriched uranium from the DOD, because we’re totally a government-funded entity now.” Patty’s pretty sure that's not how it works, and also pretty sure she’s on every watchlist there is.

Anyway, the show is, what, two hours long? How bad can it be?

“Fine,” Patty says, “but you’re cleaning up the fire.” 

Twenty-four hours later, Patty is weeping in her seat as a little girl sings about a butch in a diner, and a ring of keys, and the inexplicable kinship she feels with the older woman. The girl’s voice is heartbreakingly innocent. Patty is rapt. 

It’s not that the story mirrors Patty’s own experience of being gay — for one thing, the show’s about a white family in the boonies somewhere, which means there’s exactly one black cast member in the ensemble, and for another, Patty’s family may be crazy, but they’re not _abusive_. Still, there’s something raw and honest about the performance that strikes a chord in her. Something about the whole experience, really, the way the theater feels close and intimate with its cramped amphitheater seating, the way the scenes jump around in time but still weave a coherent story, the way Patty is breathless with anticipation despite sort of knowing how it will all end. Even Holtz is still for once, although she’s hogging the armrest and slouching against Patty’s shoulder. Patty vaguely realizes she doesn’t mind. 

Until Holtz nudges her. 

Patty barely notices at first; she doesn’t want to miss a single moment of the show, and even Holtz’s “I told you so” isn’t going to break the spell.

Holtz nudges her again. This time, Patty definitely notices, but she pointedly ignores it. 

When Holtz nudges her a third time, Patty can no longer feign obliviousness. “What?” she whispers, turning her head a fraction to glare at Holtz.

“Don’t look now,” Holtz whispers back, giving Patty what she clearly imagines is a subtle significant look, but more closely resembles a death rictus, “but we have company.” Holtz’s lips are drawn ghoulishly back over her teeth, and when she speaks again her eyes bulge with the effort of holding her lips still. She looks sort of like a ventriloquist’s dummy with constipation. “That light isn’t supposed to flicker like that, it’s not part of the show. I think it’s a spectral emergence.”

Patty follows the direction where Holtz is angling her head, and sure enough, one of the lights is crackling and flickering ectoplasm-green. For a moment, Patty is furious. How dare some ghost ruin her "Fun Home" experience? Then common sense — and with it, fear — reasserts itself. “Uh, Holtz, how are we going to deal with this? All the gear is back at the office!”

“Ah,” says Holtz, ventriloquist-dummy-face now looking smug, “lucky I brought the proton gun prototypes.” She digs into her boots, where, Patty realizes, she's attached improvised holsters.

"You brought guns to a theater?" Patty hisses, appalled.

“Shh,” comes an irritated voice from behind them. “We’re trying to watch the show!”

That’s when the ghost decides it’s tired of playing with the light and bursts out, spewing the actors closest to it with ectoplasmic slime and drawing startled screams from the audience. There’s a moment when half the people watching still think it’s a special effect from the show, while the other half have realized something is wrong and are on the verge of stampeding for the exits. Holtz uses the moment to stand, jumping onto her seat in one fluid motion and snapping her goggles into place from where they’ve been resting atop her head. 

“Everybody, stay calm,” she calls. “We have a Class III ectoplasmic manifestation, but your friendly neighborhood Ghostbusters will soon have it under control.” She begins clambering over the seats to get down to the stage, accidentally kicking one man’s glasses askew. “Clear a path, please, thank you, thank you, stay calm, there is _no need to panic_.”

Unfortunately, the sight of Holtz striding toward the stage — goggled, grinning, and brandishing a pair of proton guns — does not seem to inspire calm. There are more screams, and people start pushing each other into the aisles, scrambling to get away from both Holtz and the ghost. Some of the musicians and actors are still trying, incredibly, to keep the show going, but it’s a losing battle. The theater is rapidly devolving into a scene of pandemonium. 

Patty has had enough. 

She pulls herself up onto her own seat and takes a deep breath.

“Everybody … _shut up!_ ” 

There’s silence, except for a continuing reverberation from the cymbals. Even the ghost is momentarily still. After a few seconds, the percussionist, who dropped his drumstick at the exact moment Patty shouted, guiltily bends down to pick it up, and the ghost hisses. Patty glares at all of them, chest heaving. 

“Y’all. Are ruining. My evening. At the theater,” Patty says, punctuating each phrase with a jab of her index finger at a different section of the room. The ghost is now hovering above the audience, drifting menacingly toward Patty. She holds out a hand, palm up, not taking her eyes off the ghost. “Holtzy?”

Holtz gently lobs one of the proton guns directly onto Patty’s outstretched hand, and Patty closes her fingers around it. 

“Y’all should duck,” she informs the people sitting in front of her. They cower against their seats. “And you,” she looks back at the ghost, which is mere yards away, “ _eat protons._ ”

The ghost shrieks as the proton beam hits it, and Patty is impressed at the strength of the weapon; its recoil almost knocks her off her chair. The ghost, though, is resisting, trapped in a proton beam but writhing so much it’s all Patty can do to follow it with her gun. 

“Holtzy!”

A second beam joins the first, confining the ghost more closely. Now the spectral entity is bulging, stretching its ectoplasm against the double beam. They’re close, Patty can tell. A minute more and they’ll have it. She steals a glance at Holtz, who is focused, laser-like, on the ghost. She’s braced in a wide stance and has a two-handed grip on her gun, and she’s following the ghost’s movements almost effortlessly. Patty is somewhat startled to realize she finds the motion of Holtz’s arms beautiful, even mesmerizing. 

Then she feels her own gun growing hot in her hands. 

“Holtzy, something’s happening to my gun,” she calls, apprehension rising in her voice as she remembers that the weapon she’s holding is a prototype.

“I know, the power coil is overheating,” Holtz yells back. “Was working on that yesterday, didn’t get it fixed. It’s okay, we only need — a couple — more — seconds —”

But it’s too late. Patty’s gun flares white-hot and she flings it away from her with a yell. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches movement — Holtz’s gun, flying in a glowing arc — and hears Holtz’s voice echoing in her head. 

— _gotta figure out what to do about the impact-initiated combustion instability_ —

Some instinct throws Patty forward over three rows of seats and into the aisle. She crashes against Holtz, shoving her to the floor. Patty’s body is shielding Holtz when the two guns collide in mid-air — or rather, mid-ectoplasm, since their arcs intersect right where the ghost is floating. The guns burst into flame, showering the entire theater with drops of hot ectoplasm. Patty feels a fragment of metal skim across her back, but she barely registers the pain. 

“Holtz? Holtzy, you okay? Holtz, baby, talk to me.”

Holtz squints up at her, eyes slowly drawing into focus. “ _Ow?_ ”

Patty sighs with relief, pushing herself upright, and hisses as a burning sensation blossoms across her back. _Now_ she can feel where the metal cut her. 

“Hey, Patty, you’re bleeding,” Holtz says conversationally, staring at Patty’s back.

“No shit,” snaps Patty, “your proton guns combusted and sent metal bits all over the place.”

“Is that what happened?” Holtz says, wide-eyed. “Dammit, those took me two weeks to build!”

“Yeah, well, try making version two-point-oh a bit less … flame-y, ’kay?” Holtz pouts, and Patty sighs. “Oh, fine, it was lucky you had them with you.”

They look around the theater. People are getting to their feet, looking dazed. A few remarkably composed stagehands and ushers are shepherding them toward the exits. No one appears to be seriously injured; Patty thinks she must have caught the worst of the blast.

A flustered-looking man is scurrying, white-faced, toward them. “Oh my goodness!” he cries, looking briefly surprised at how high-pitched his own voice comes out. “What was that?”

“I told you,” says Holtz, “it was a Class III ectoplasmic —”

“You saved the theater! You saved everyone!” the man exclaims, cutting her off. “How can I thank you? How can I ever — oh, wait,” Holtz looks a bit mollified when he interrupts himself too, “here, I’ll put you down for two free tickets to Friday’s show, just tell Will Call that Paul said you’d get them.”

“Uh, sorry,” says Patty, “but who the hell are you?”

“The theater manager, of course!” the man squeaks. He reaches out and pumps first Holtz’s, then Patty’s hand with both of his own, and turns and bounds off toward the stage. 

Holtz and Patty stare at each other for a second, then simultaneously burst into giggles. 

As they make their way to the door, though, Holtz grows sober. “Patty, I’m sorry,” she says. Patty stops, startled, as Holtz continues, “This was supposed to be a really — nice — night.”

Patty stares at her. Suddenly, things are clicking into place: Holtz’s wheedling for Patty to come to the show, Holtz’s insistence that it be _Patty_ and not any of the others, Holtz’s hand palm-up on the armrest and Holtz’s shoulder against hers…

“Holtzy…” Patty has to stop and take a breath. “Was this supposed to be a _date?_ ” The idea is strangely thrilling.

Holtzy gives a one-shouldered shrug and looks shiftily off into the middle distance, and Patty struggles for a minute with the mind-boggling realization that, for the first time she can remember, Holtz seems _nervous_. 

“Supposed to,” Holtz mutters eventually. She flashes a sheepish smile. “Didn’t exactly turn out that way.”

Patty’s smiling now, really smiling, and Holtz’s smile widens tentatively to match. 

“We’ll just have to plan another date, then,” Patty declares. “And you’re in luck, I — well, we — well, Paul really — just got us tickets to 'Fun Home'. What are you doing Friday night?”

Holtz’s grin seems like it’s about to split her face, and Patty barely has time to brace herself before Holtz jumps into her arms. She staggers but manages to catch both herself and Holtz, who has wrapped both arms and legs around Patty. 

“ _Ow?_ ” Patty says, but it’s mostly for show. 

The next time they see "Fun Home", they’re in the front row, and Patty’s so delighted she doesn’t even try to slouch like she usually does when her height gets in other people’s way. This time, everything is perfect — this time, Patty snakes an arm around Holtz’s shoulders when Holtz leans against her, and reaches her other hand over to grab Holtz’s hand on the armrest. This time, they both watch, transfixed, all the way through the show, and no one hollers louder than the two of them when applause breaks the silence that stretches in the wake of the last note of music.

Best of all, this time, the only ghost Patty encounters all night is the ghost of Holtz’s lips on her mouth. It lingers for the entire subway ride home.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I'm actually quite fond of "Les Mis". Even if it is basically the same 5 songs over and over with slightly modified lyrics.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] If I Wanted a Ghost, I'd Have Gone to See "Phantom" by Cherepashka](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9172852) by [were_duck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_duck/pseuds/were_duck)




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